The Writer Picked Up His Pen

[Unpublished]

The writer picked up his pen and printed the following words on the top sheet of the pile of foolscap paper on his kitchen table.

CERN ZOO
by Peter Tennant

He put down the pen, removed the page and placed it face down on the right hand side of the pile. He then picked up the pen once more and prepared to write more words on the second sheet. However, he was interrupted by someone knocking at his front door.
The writer left the kitchen and trotted to his front door. He opened the door to find a stranger standing outside. The man was nondescript and was holding what the writer thought to be some kind of manuscript.
“Can I help you?” asked the writer.
“Possibly,” the stranger replied. “But I can help you.”
“Oh yes?”
“Oh yes.”
“Okay, come in then.”
The writer allowed the strange man to enter his home, after which he closed the front door and led the man into the kitchen. He gestured for him to take a seat at the table, which the man did.
“Tea?” the writer asked.
“Yes, please.”
The writer made tea in a china teapot, hot and strong, and joined the man at the table. He poured two cups and allowed the stranger to help himself to milk and sugar. The stranger thanked him as he did so.
“So how can you help me?” the writer enquired.
The stranger immediately handed over his manuscript to the writer, who took it and read the words on the top page.

CERN ZOO
by Rhys Hughes

The writer placed the manuscript on to the kitchen table, to the left of his pile of foolscap paper.
“Do you expect me to read this?” he asked the stranger.
“You can read it if you wish to,” said the man. “It makes no difference if you read it or not.”
“It makes no difference to what?”
“It makes no difference to life, death and the future.”
The writer took his teacup and sipped a small amount of the hot tea through his lips. He swallowed it silently and gently.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
The stranger lifted his teacup also and took a tiny sip into his mouth, relishing the taste for a few seconds before swallowing, also gently and silently.
“Nice tea,” he said.
“Thank you,” the writer responded.
The strange man then placed his elbows on the table and poked his head forward a little.
“I know who you are,” he said. “You are Peter Tennant.”
“You are right,” said the writer, “and you are Rhys Hughes.”
“You are right also. You are Peter Tennant, and I know that you are simply unable to resist a challenge, especially the challenge of a submission to a magazine, anthology or any publication that requires a short tale. Am I right?”
“You are right.”
“I have already noticed that you are in the process of producing a tale to submit.”
“That is correct. But you have beat me to it. You have already produced a tale for this particular anthology.”
The writer nodded at the manuscript to the left of his pile of foolscap paper.
“Yes I have,” the stranger said. “And let me tell you that I do not regret producing it. Not one bit. Even though it has rendered me exhausted and very, very jaded.”
“Really?”
“Yes, it has.”
The stranger then picked up his teacup once again and took more liquid into his mouth, smacking his lips as he savoured the taste and swallowed. He then addressed the writer once more.
“Have you ever wondered how many words you will produce in your lifetime? How many sentences you will construct? How many plots you will devise? How many works of fiction you will complete? Have you ever wondered about these things?”
“Not in so many words,” the writer said.
The stranger chuckled. He grabbed the teacup and finished off the contents in one go, before placing the cup back on to the table.
“More tea?” the writer asked.
“Yes, please.”
The writer took hold of the teapot and poured more tea for the stranger. He allowed him to help himself to milk and sugar, and the man did so. The writer then emptied the contents of his own cup into his mouth, and poured himself another cup.
“Why do you mention the amount of words I might produce in my lifetime?” the writer enquired.
The stranger paused before responding.
“I myself believe that there is a limit,” he told the writer, “and when one reaches that limit that is the end. The end of everything. And I believe that I have reached that limit.”
“How do you know?”
“Because producing this tale has rendered me exhausted and very, very jaded.”
He supped more tea before continuing.
“It is Cern Zoo,” he explained. “This is the tale to end all tales. It is the end of everything. You are Peter Tennant. You have written thousands upon thousands of words over the years. There must come a point where you can not write another word. It will come upon completion of this tale. Cern Zoo. It is the end. The end of everything.”
“Then I don’t think I will complete the tale,” said the writer with a slight chuckle.
“You will do. You are Peter Tennant. You are simply unable to resist a challenge, especially the challenge of a submission to a magazine, anthology or any publication that requires a short tale. You will complete the tale. And it will be the end.”
The writer sipped at his tea as he eyed the stranger across the table. He considered him to be quite eccentric, and questioned the words he was uttering.
“How am I supposed to believe all this?” he asked the man. “You might be incorrect. It might not be the end at all.”
“It is the end,” said the stranger. “I can prove it.”
“You can prove it? How?”
The man sat back in his chair, a grim expression taking over his features. He appeared to tense his body, as if in preparation for some cosmic event.
“I apologise for the mess,” he said, before his body crumbled and disintegrated in front of the writer’s eyes, and in less than ten seconds he became a small pile of grey-white ash upon the kitchen chair.
The writer stared in shock at the remains of the stranger for several minutes, not able to comprehend what had happened. When he regained his senses he cleaned up the ashes, and afterwards he resumed his place at the table, and proceeded to write the story he was about to begin beforehand. When he had finished, he picked up the stranger’s manuscript and read it, purely out of curiosity. The tale was identical to his own.

The writer picked up his pen and printed the following words on the top sheet of the pile of foolscap paper on his kitchen table.

CERN ZOO
by D F Lewis

He put down the pen, removed the page and placed it face down on the right hand side of the pile. He then picked up the pen once more and prepared to write more words on the second sheet. However, he was interrupted by someone knocking at his front door.
The writer left the kitchen and trotted to his front door. He opened the door to find a stranger standing outside. The man was nondescript and was holding what the writer thought to be some kind of manuscript.
“Can I help you?” asked the writer.
“Possibly,” the stranger replied. “But I can help you.”
“Oh yes?”
“Oh yes.”
With that the stranger handed the manuscript to the writer, who took it and studied the top page.

CERN ZOO
by Peter Tennant

“How can this help me?” asked the writer.
“Let me in and I’ll show you,” the stranger replied.
“Come in then,” said the writer, “I’ll make us some hot strong tea.”
“Thank you,” said the stranger as he stepped into the house. “I believe it will be the last I ever have…”